Praise for the Gereon Rath series
‘Kutscher successfully conjures up the dangerous decadence of the Weimar years, with blood on the Berlin streets and the Nazis lurking menacingly in the wings.’
Sunday Times
‘Gripping evocative thriller set in Berlin’s seedy underworld during the roaring Twenties.’
Mail on Sunday
‘Babylon Berlin brings a fresh perspective to images and material that might otherwise seem shopworn, and its frenetic rhythms are particularly apt for a moment when we appear to be dancing our own convulsive tango on the edge of a fiery volcano.’
New York Review of Books
‘If you like crime, historical or translated fiction, this gives you all three.’
Nicola Sturgeon
‘James Ellroy fans will welcome Kutscher’s series, a fast-paced blend of murder and corruption set in 1929 Berlin. Kutscher keeps the surprises coming and doesn’t flinch at making his lead morally compromised.’
Publishers Weekly
‘The novels on which the dramas are based are even more rewarding than television’s slick production...’
The New European
Volker Kutscher was born in 1962. He studied German, Philosophy and History, and worked as a newspaper editor prior to writing his first detective novel, Babylon Berlin, the start of the award-winning series of novels to feature Gereon Rath and Charlotte (Charly) Ritter and their exploits in late Weimar Republic Berlin. The Gereon Rath series was awarded the Berlin Krimi-Fuchs Crime Writers Prize in 2011 and has sold over one million copies worldwide. A lavish television production of Babylon Berlin was first aired in 2017 in the UK on Sky Atlantic. Volker Kutscher works as a full-time author and lives in Cologne.
Niall Sellar was born in Edinburgh in 1984. He studied German and Translation Studies in Dublin, Konstanz and Edinburgh, and has worked variously as a translator, teacher and reader. He lives in Glasgow.
Also available from Sandstone Press
Babylon Berlin (Der nasse Fisch)
The Silent Death (Der stumme Tod)
Goldstein (Goldstein)
Other titles in the Gereon Rath series
The March Fallen (Märzgefallene)
Lunapark (Lunapark)
Marlow (Marlow)
First published in Great Britain by
Sandstone Press Ltd
Dochcarty Road
Dingwall
Ross-shire
IV15 9UG
Scotland
www.sandstonepress.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored
or transmitted in any form without the express written
permission of the publisher.
First published in the German language as “Die Akte Vaterland”
by Volker Kutscher
© 2012 Verlag Kiepenheuer & Witsch GmbH & Co.
KG, Cologne/ Germany
© 2010, Volker Kutscher
The right of Volker Kutscher to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
Translation © Niall Sellar 2019
The publisher acknowledges support from Creative Scotland
towards publication of this volume.
The translation of this work was supported
by a grant from the Goethe-Institut which is funded by the
German Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
ISBN: 978-1-912240-56-2
ISBNe: 978-1-912240-57-9
Cover design by Mark Swan
Typeset by Iolaire Typesetting, Newtonmore
Contents
Prologue
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
Part Two
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
Part Three
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
Epilogue
Author's Note
‘The year 1932 will be our year, the year the Republic emerges victorious over its opponents. Not one more day, not one more hour, will we remain on the defensive – we attack! Across the board! We must be part of the general offensive. Today we cry – tomorrow we strike!’
Karl Höltermann, SPD, December 1931
Prologue
Sunday, 11th July 1920
On the move again, stealing through the forest, he leaves his shelter and advances through the trees. No one will hear him, no one will see him. There is a heaviness in the air, deep in the thicket he feels the warmth; summer has arrived with a vengeance. Tokala pauses and takes a deep breath. The scent of lime-tree blossom and winter barley fills the air in the fields over by Markowsken, and already he can smell the lake.
As he draws nearer his pace slows. If he shows himself then it is only to strike fear into those around. He doesn’t like it when they enter his forest, doesn’t care for their loud cries, their reckless tramping through the undergrowth. He doesn’t like their contempt for everything he holds dear.
A mirror hangs in his hut and, sometimes, before he ventures out, he rubs black earth into his face until his eyes glow wildly and, when he bares his teeth, he resembles a beast of prey. In the twilight it renders him as good as invisible but, with the sun high, he has chosen to dispense with his disguise. To be all the stealthier, he wears moccasins made of elk leather and in them he prowls quiet as a cat.
Tokala must be careful. The lake belongs to their realm. People don’t dare enter his forest. They are afraid – afraid of the moors, and the Kaubuk.
Yes, the Kaubuk, they call him. They have long since forgotten his old name, which he can barely remember himself, and still less are they aware of his new one, which he adopted when he bade farewell to their world, many winters ago. His true name, his warrior name: Tokala, the fox.
Like a fox he moves through the forest, taking cover in his
den. They let him go about his business in peace, and he reciprocates in kind. Neither meddles in the other’s world, their unspoken agreement for years. It is dangerous in their world, but now and again he must risk it, must venture into their cities and villages by night when he needs new books or paraffin oil – or crops that refuse to grow on his patch of moorland.
His caution is justified. He has almost reached the lake when he hears humming and singing, and pauses mid-motion to listen. A woman’s voice, an indeterminate melody. Slowly he steals towards his hiding place on the shore. Tokala has recognised her, has identified her voice, even before he sees her summer dress shimmering red and white through the trees.
Niyaha Luta, he calls her.
He has seen her once before, by the same spot a few weeks ago, and on that occasion, too, he crouched in hiding not daring to move. Though invisible in the dim of the thick undergrowth, she seemed to be looking straight at him when she gazed up from her book. The clatter and tinkle of metal told him she hadn’t stolen away alone, and, indeed, shortly afterwards, a man with a bicycle emerged from the forest. It was clear that she had been expecting him when she kissed him. It was she who kissed him, not the other way round, and thus Tokala knew this was neither their first meeting nor some chance encounter.
That was the moment he withdrew from his hiding place into the darkness of the forest.
Now she has returned, and Tokala is crouching in his hiding place once more. He sees her dress, a red, feather-like pattern on radiant white; sees her bare legs dangling in the water. She is sitting on that same sunlit branch jutting out over the lake and, just as before, she is reading from her book.
There is a crackle of branches, and a man emerges from the forest. Not the man with the bicycle, but another, and Tokala sees in her eyes that his presence is unexpected. She snaps her book shut as if she has been caught doing something illegal.
‘So this is where you’ve been idling,’ the man says.
‘I’m not idling, I’m reading.’
‘Here, in the wilds? When the whole region has come to perform its patriotic duty, even the peasants from Jewarken and Urbanken?’
These days there is much talk of patriotic duty and the Fatherland. Tokala doesn’t understand such talk, or why men in uniform chase him when he brings back bottles of paraffin oil from Suwalki or salt in exchange for his pelts. It makes no difference to him, Tokala, whether he is in the Markowsken forest or Karassewo, yet they behave as though it were the difference between heaven and hell. He has never understood the meaning of the border. The forest is the same, on both sides, and Tokala will never understand why one tree should be Prussian and the next should be Polish.
There is a splash as the man wades into the shallow shore water, and makes for Niyaha Luta.
‘What are you doing so far out in the forest? Aren’t you afraid you might wander onto the moors? Or into the Kaubuk’s hands?’
‘I’m not a child any more. Stories like that don’t scare me.’
‘Indeed you are not.’ Tokala doesn’t like the way he looks at her. ‘You’re a grown woman. You can even vote.’
‘I already did, straight after church. If that’s what you’re worried about?’
She means to sound brave, but Tokala can sense the tremble in her voice.
‘What I’m worried about . . .’ He gives a contemptuous snort. ‘And afterwards you had nothing better to do than ride out here . . .’
Fearfully, she looks around. As if the man with the bicycle could appear at any moment. Tokala crouches in his hiding place, sharing her concern.
‘Is it because of that red handkerchief hanging from the rail of the town mill bridge?’ She says nothing, but the man moves closer, reaching the branch on which she is sitting and gesturing towards the bark. ‘Someone’s carved a heart here,’ he says.
‘Oh, have they now?’ She sounds more spirited, but it is her desperation talking.
‘A.M.,’ he says, picking at the wood with his fingers. ‘And next to it J.P. Freshly carved.’ She says nothing, but Tokala can see the fear in her eyes. ‘A.M.? Sounds a lot like you, my dear.’ His index finger traces the letters in the bark. ‘But who is J.P.?’
Tokala sees her fear gradually morph into rage. ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘That you’ve bagged yourself a suitor. Well, here’s what I think about that!’
The man is screaming now. Tokala covers his ears with his hands, but the noise pierces the air.
‘I never promised you anything!’ She has jumped down from the branch and is standing with her bare feet in the shallow water, glaring at him furiously.
‘Is that right?’ he said, ‘but you have promised the Polack something, is that what you’re saying?’
‘That’s none of your goddamn business!’
‘People are already talking about you! You’re not even eighteen and here you are carrying on with this Pole, making doe-eyes at him!’
‘I never promised you anything, and never, do you hear me, never, would I let a man like you anywhere near me!’
The man lurches backwards, as if physically pained by her words. As if she has dealt him a blow with a stick. Then he steadies himself, speaking softly now. ‘But you let him do whatever he likes. The Polack!’
‘He isn’t Polish, he’s Prussian. Just like you.’
‘You admit it then!’
‘So what I if I do? Maybe someday I’ll marry him.’
‘A Catholic? A Polish sympathiser?’
‘I don’t think that’s any of your concern.’
‘You don’t?’
‘That’s right. I don’t know what you want. Now get lost and leave me in peace.’
‘The hell I will. Someone here’s got to teach you some manners. Seeing as your father clearly hasn’t.’
‘Don’t you dare touch me!’
The man takes a step towards her and her eyes glare at him but, still, he is undeterred.
‘Just one kiss,’ he says, and it sounds anything but affectionate. ‘If you’re going to kiss the Polack, then I have every right to kiss you too!’
He seizes her thin arms with both hands. She tries to repel him, but, crouching in his hiding place, Tokala sees the man tighten his grip and press his mouth on her face. She tries to swerve, but he is too strong.
‘Let me go,’ she cries, finally wrenching her mouth free.
‘What’s the matter? I thought a whore like you couldn’t get enough.’
The man forces her to the ground, into the shallow water, as, still, she defends herself. He is wicked. Tokala knew it all along. ‘Leave me alone!’ she screams, but the wicked man ignores her and her screaming subsides to a gurgle. Her head must be underwater.
Tokala averts his gaze, and sees another woman and another man, not in the lake this time but in a hut, in the glow of a paraffin lamp. The woman is bleeding from the eye, the face of the man inflamed; he is drunk and furious, and he strikes her and tears open her nightgown . . .
Tokala pushes the image to one side and looks back towards the shore. A voice inside urges him to intervene, but a second holds him back. It is not for him to meddle in their world! How many city dwellers visit harm upon their wives? That is their world, and Tokala knows it is rotten. That is why he left it behind. The city folk don’t interfere with his business, and he doesn’t interfere with theirs. That’s the way his life has been for years, and it is the only life he can imagine for himself.
He can’t bear it any longer, he must return to his forest, he can’t stay another second. Crawling slowly backwards, the way he has read in books, he catches sight of the wicked man pulling at her summer dress, hears the fabric rip, sees him position himself on top of the defenceless woman and unzip his fly, while his other arm presses her to the ground, knees splaying her thighs. Tokala hears her scream, and once more it chokes to a gurgle as her head is briefly submerged. Again he sees the woman with her torn nightgown, her lifeless eyes.
Still picturing that final i
mage, he bursts forth into the forest, runs as fast as his legs can carry him, as far away as possible from the violence of their world. The evil he once fled has returned and, even here, he is no longer safe. Racing on, the lake now far behind, he reaches the middle of the forest where he stops and lets out a cry so loud that the birds around him take flight. He stands there impotent and helpless, and screams.
It is hopeless! You cannot partake of their world without experiencing its pain, without summoning its evil, not even as a spectator. That is the lesson you have learned. Now you realise, beyond any doubt, why you must keep away from their world; why living far away in the woods is the only right course of action.
PART I
Berlin
2nd to 6th July 1932
The sun beating down on dead bodies doesn’t know about the future, doesn’t see the big picture, it just knows where to send the flies.
ED BRUBAKER, SLEEPER, SEASON TWO, #7
1
Reinhold Gräf had never seen Potsdamer Platz so dark and deserted. It was a quarter past five in the morning, the neon signs had long been extinguished, and the buildings that lined the square loomed like dirty cliffs against the sky. The black Maybach, out of whose side window the detective gazed, was the only vehicle on the otherwise busy junction. Even the traffic tower was unmanned, its lights glowing dimly behind the glass. Gräf pressed his forehead against the car window and watched the raindrops form little pools on the windscreen, buffeted by the airstream.
‘That’s Haus Vaterland there, isn’t it?’ Lange piped up from the rear seat. ‘The one with the dome.’
Gräf signalled for the driver to stop and folded down the window.
The Fatherland Files Page 1
